Acquiring the Bliss SYOT
by Aranwen
Summary: Tributes are dropped in the middle of a desolate landscape, where dead plants are abundant and water is scarce. In the middle of this wasteland, a sandy horror, how can one hope to be happy? Read as 24 tributes, submitted by readers, fight it out for glory, hoping they can find their passion; longing for the bliss that accompanies a victor. SYOT OPEN.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. All rights go to Suzanne Collins, and OCs' rights go to their respective creators.

* * *

Fifel Grey, District 5, victor of the 18th Hunger Games

There we were; two kids staring each other down with a burning hatred no one else would ever be able to produce. I had killed his sister, a naive airhead who had been even more annoying than him. He had killed my district partner, an innocent boy named Jerym who I had helped and attempted to defend during his short stay in the Arena. We stalked around either end of the flimsy bridge, waiting for the other one to make the first move. I had known there was no way I was going to risk the chance of falling off the bridge, onto one of the many stone spikes below, when my chance at winning was so clear. I think he just wanted to get the games over with, his patience long gone, after waiting 3 weeks for the win. Well, the win he was never going to get.

We stood there for a good half an hour; a deadlock. Most likely, it was becoming boring for the Capitol. The only action that occurred was me taking a couple of swigs from my water bottle and him killing a small lizard. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large cloud of dust billowed behind him, closing in on him fast. I could feel a faint breeze caress my blonde hair, and when I turned around I found that a similar storm had appeared behind me. I just clenched my jaw, remaining patient. I could feel the Capitolites cheering at their large televisions, egging us on, final bets being made. Not once did I look back, I just held my ground a couple of feet before the bridge. Slowly, the District 1 boy unsheathed his sword, took own look behind him, and then made his decision clear.

He started to bound over the bridge, his long legs propelling him like a rocket. The bridge was long and narrow, about 500 metres long. As soon as he made it halfway I set to cutting the left side of the bridge's rope with one of the two small knives I had used as my weapons the entire game. He was getting closer and closer, a look of determination set on his face. I remember looking over at him, just as the last of the strings frayed; how he focused his weight to the other side, his lanky arms supporting him. The desperate look he gave me has haunted me. I had routine nightmares about that afternoon for nearly a month after it happened. He knew he was going to die as soon as I started cutting. As his grip was becoming weaker, I hesitantly walked over to the edge and started to stomp on the thin wooden boards. He didn't try to resist, he just muttered something, looked at me, and then let himself fall. I sat down on the thin sand, waiting for his cannon to boom. When it finally did, when the sounds of trumpets filled the barren arena, I let the tears flow down my face.

* * *

Hi, everyone. This is my first SYOT, (well, first story). I'm hoping to get lots of submissions, so I can start quickly, but remember: to make a good story, you need good characters. The form's on my page, for those of you who'd like to submit, as well as some info.


	2. Chapter 2

President Snow

"So, you've got the arena planned out, right Oshea?" I asked the gamemaker, as he stepped into my large office, my eyes still locked on the document sitting upon my mahogany desk before me.

"Yes sir." He replied, shifting uncomfortably in his leather shoes. What a pushover. I'm starting to regret killing Darius, the last head game maker, but it was his own fault. Put my face in the arena, splatter it with blood, and expect to live? I don't think so.

"Well, then give it to me. Don't be incoherent, Oshea. It'll be your downfall." Then I remembered what happened last time he came to my office. "Or, have you forgotten your files, again?" Last Tuesday I asked him to bring me the information on how last year's victor was doing. Every year, I get a progress report on the latest winner of the infamous Hunger Games. Needless to say, he forgot it.

"Oh, yes, of course sir, sorry sir." He produced a small packet of files, some of the sheets sticking out. He handed me the thick package. After watching me flip through the pages, excitedly, for a couple of seconds he finally asked: "Is it good, sir?"

It seemed very boring, actually. Unlike his last arena, this one does not seem to anticipate much fighting between the tributes, or much blood at all. But, it has potential. I can see those filthy district bodies lined up across the map now, covered in blood and gore, just as frightening to the Districts as it was 18 years ago.

"Yes, very." I told him. If I get his hopes up, he should work harder. If not, I guess I'm going to be hiring a new head game maker soon. "But I think you should make the arena have different elevations. This is flat; mundane. Turn up the heat in the arena - right now, it's way too cold to be any where near painful. Also, add in some trees, some wildlife. No one wants just fields of grass and a couple of, although they seem nice, trees. And, for my own amusement, add some weapons that relate to this geographical area. Do some history research. Take initiative. I shouldn't have to be telling my head game maker any of this, riiiight?" I emphasized the last word. Ugh, it's like talking to a brain dead child.

"Right, sir!" The look of fear has returned to his face. Perfect. Fear runs the world, and happiness delays it. That's why we can't have anyone too happy. That is, except for me. "I'll start working on it right away, I'll let the other game makers know your plans, too!"

"Alright, Oshea. Just remember, if this Arena isn't up to your-" I paused, looking for the word. "standards, I know the names and age of everyone in your family." My eyes flicked up to the grey bulletin board beside me, filled with multi-coloured pins and pictures of my family, as well as the family members of the game makers. Oshea's altered purple eyes quickly followed, before he gulped. His large adam's apple bounced.

"Nice talking to you, sir!" He said, before slipping outside of my glass office. I sat back in my chair, discarding the preposterous request someone made to reduce the amount of animals needed to make the mutts. After all, I thought to myself with a smirk.

"The games are all about sacrifice."

* * *

Well, I hope you like it! It was kind of hard writing as President Snow, but I think I managed to do okay. Between the cover photo and the descriptions I give in the story (before the games) I'm hoping to give insight on how the Arena's doing and what it's going to look like, but I won't be doing 'the big unveiling' until the games actually start. So far I've received a record number of 0 applications, so that means anyone looking to apply will have no contest on whatever character they want, so let's start some apps! Also, reviews are appreciated, they let me know what I'm doing right and wrong. I am in no way a professional writer, and if I don't receive criticism there's no possible way I'll improve. Also, once I start writing from the tributes' points of view the chapters will be longer, as they'll incorporate more than one person's outlook on a situation/how they're doing in the Arena so far. The reapings will be written as followed, each number represents a chapter:

1. Districts 1, 2 and 3

2. Districts 10, 11 and 12

3. Districts 4, 5 and 6

4. Districts 7, 8 and 9


	3. The Old and The Young, Part One

"Time will have warranted all that the foliage brung falls to the ground at the feet of the old and the young, tired and worn from a life made of wallow and pain."

The Old & The Young, by Midlake.

* * *

**Cefin Richetti, District One Male, Age 18**

"Remember, you have to learn the others' weaknesses. Exploit them. Utilize them. Make sure you don't reveal your own, though. Stay alert; kill the other careers if you have to. Just do whatever, I'm sure you'll be just fine. Cefin, you can win these next Hunger Games, you know."

Me and Callion have been at this for hours. All we're doing is just reviewing the basic stuff; manipulation techniques and other small that have already been drilled into my mind. Occasionally, I've been nodding, letting him know I was at least paying a bit of attention.

It's always been a bit awkward for me, talking to Callion. He's all warm and cheery, and then he talks about how to get into someone's mind, how to manipulate them. How to wreck them emotionally.

I guess, in a way, he's done it to me. We're not so different, me and him, except that I'm almost 200 pounds of muscle, whereas he's a thin twig. I'll hand it to him, though. He's smart. Almost as smart as me.

I give him a quick goodbye, telling him I'll see him after the games, and listening to him tell me about how well I'll do. His words are transparent though; they mean nothing.

I exit through the wooden door to his house, pet his skinny cat, Marbles, and then I make my way down to the cracked sidewalk.

Seeing the sun above me makes me realise how much time I actually spent in there. It's almost noon, but I made sure to wake up a bit early so I could meet him at eight in the morning. It was a waste. I was hoping he'd show me something useful, something I hadn't learned almost eight years ago.

I stretch out my body, feeling the comfortable pain of sore muscles course through my body. I exhale a bit forcefully, preparing myself for the long jog ahead. Callion's house is a couple of miles away from the closest training centre, so I like to run in between the two places to fit in an extra workout.

As I'm bending down, I notice my arms have gotten bigger. I take a second to flex. Yep, they've definitely gotten bigger. Nice.

I crouch down once more, putting myself in a fierce pose, before I take off.

My feet thump the ground in rhythm, padding against solid dirt and cement alike. I looked back up at the sky, and estimated the time using the sun.

_One, two, three, four…._

I still have time. My head flicks back the sweaty hair on my forehead. Should I go the long way or the short way?

The long way. As much as I'd love to be reminded of Pavao, I need to keep up my endurance.

I press on through the dirt road, using the absence of people as an advantage. Here, I don't have to talk to anyone, or stop for them. I can run however fast I want, without anyone judging me.

_That's how it should be._ I remind myself.

One of the few good things about going into the Hunger Games, besides getting all the free attention from strangers, is that I'll have alone time. Sure, I'll probably be with the other kids who are trained, but who knows how long the alliance is going to last?

I'm just hoping that they're all tolerable. Then again, if they're annoying, it'll be just that much easier to kill them. I can't be with weaklings, can I?

The air today seems cleaner, fresher. Maybe it's because the reaping is in a couple of days, but my senses are all on high alert. It's great, but it's weird, feeling like I've just begun to experience life.

In the distance, a group of kids, all about 12, are running towards me in identical black suits. Trainees. I give them a quick nod, before I start into a sprint. I know I'm almost at the training centre, so why not push myself even harder?

_Yes. Push yourself harder, Cefin._

* * *

**Nala Shimmer, District 1 Female, Age 16**

I stare defiantly at my dad. Why does the care so much? Of course I'm going to win, there's no question. I've been zoning out for most of his rant, just staring at him.

"Did you really think you could just skip training? What the hell were you thinking, Nala? You're 16, for god's sakes! You can't just skip things like this. Training's important. You're going into the games in a few days; you can't risk being sloppy!"

Suddenly, I'm out of my intimidating trance, the words processing through my brain.

"I don't care, dad. I'm fine how I am right now."

I push myself up from the table, walking out the door as I'm talking. I turn around to face my brick house, lined with small shrubs and even a window. My dad's red face, complete with bulging veins appears in the open doorway.

"Seriously, I could win the Hunger Games, just as I am. Right now. Better yet, I could fight you, dad. Is that what you want? You want me to show you how well trained I am?" I yell at him.

His face grows even redder, almost purple.

He tries to open his mouth, but as soon as he does I kick our tin mailbox if front of our tidy lawn, watching it satisfyingly hit the ground with a loud 'ping.' I start to walk away, but I see him start running towards me.

I start into a sprint, gaining ground quickly with the same long legs my dad has. I breathe lightly through my nose, favouring my mouth to shout small taunts at him.

Slowly, his heavy footsteps grow fainter.

Couldn't keep up with your daughter, old man? I can't help but letting a large grin grow over my face. I look up, fixing my hair and letting my self cool down a little bit. Now I know where I am - the slums. Even District 1, one of the wealthiest Districts, has a few sections where all the poor live. I happen to live close enough to run to it; even though _my _area is one of the richest.

I walk through the small community. It's filled with greasy looking kids and dirty houses; some with chipped paint. Others are missing bricks, shingles, and fencing. The occasional house needs to attend to all three.

A little boy, with big brown eyes and long hair comes up to me, taps my hand, and runs away.

A group of kids, all similar to the first boy, gathers around me. Some of them tease me, yelling things like "You're it!" or chant little rhymes, mocking me. I glare at them all.

One of the more audacious kids come up to me. I knock him down with just one hand, walking out of the small circle. All of them fall silent. He looks up at me with glossy eyes and a quivering mouth.

"Don't be stupid." I say, walking away. I can already feel the headache settling in. It's funny- the migraine doesn't start when I'm screaming at my dad, and likewise, but when a group of dumb kids come up to me and start talking, it appears almost immediately.

I don't know whether to go home and take my medication, or if I should just wait it out in my neighbourhood. Nah, I'm not going back to _him_. Not until tonight, at least, when I can get some food.

I sit down next to the factory near my house. Its grey smokestacks puff out large clouds of smoke. The factory's my dad and the smoke's all the shit that spews out his mouth.

Sometimes, I love my dad. He gives me nice things, takes me out, and buys me extra food on my birthday, and does small things like that.

Other days, I hate him.

I sigh, sitting up, gently coaxing my sleepy legs to wake up. I rub my calves, stirring the invisible needles poking through. Now that my head's cleared, I can think. Should I go back to my home? My dad's still going to be pissed at me; and I'll have to go to training, no doubt.

Weighing the pros and cons, I still don't know what to do.

I find myself not knowing so much anymore; I'm spacing out and taking so long to make decisions. Hopefully, I'll adjust before the Hunger Games. Although it's guaranteed I'll win, if I don't shape up soon, I may lose something valuable, like my finger or foot. I shudder at the thought.

_Nothing's going to happen to you, Nala. Nothing. _

* * *

**Blaze Layland, District Two Male, Age 18**

Training: That's what I need right now; no diversions, no distractions. I've already got the other guys to back down. I can't disappoint.

This year? This is my year.

I'm going to win, for District 2, for my family- especially for Ryker. Every time I tell him I'm leaving for training his face flashes with a brief moment of sadness. I stripped him of his chance when I was 8, when I was sick, but I've made a promise to make it up to him, and I plan on doing just that, by training my hardest and soon, winning. The dummy in front of me is heavily destroyed; seams are split and the fabric's tearing everywhere. I manage to muster a smile as I stab and slice it with two short swords, twin in size, length, and weight.

_Here I am, complaining about the condition, when I'm the one who damaged the big doll, anyways._

The depth of the cuts in specific places just proves how precise I am with the weapons, no doubt intimidating some of the younger trainees who walked by just minutes ago.

Tiny beads of sweat are starting to dribble down my forehead, but I'm just getting started. My arms haven't even started to experience the burning acquired after a good workout. Each swing of my arm deepens one of the various cuts in fatal areas; like the chest. Small tufts of cotton are flying everywhere.

Slowly, after finally feeling satisfied, I quit with the dummy. Now it's time for something fun – a competition, perhaps?

Drifting across the wooden floor, I approach Delid. He's deep in concentration, throwing his wimpy knives at the target boards set up in front of him.

"Hey, Delid!" I shout. "You wanna have a bit of a … competition?" I smile slyly. I know he can't resist saying yes. He's a lot like me, except that I'm the only one that was good enough to be District 2's volunteer.

He checks me out, looking for any weapons I might have. Confidently, I display both my hands in front of me.

"What kind, Blaze? It better not be as retarded as last time." He replies. Ouch.

"How about we punch each other until the other one starts crying?" I say with a grin.

After heavy persuasion, we walk over to the square mat occupying the middle of the room. He's got his game face on. I guess he just doesn't want to lose like last time. Well, I wouldn't either.

"Okay, go!" I holler; charging towards him with my fist draw back.

My fists pound his body in frenzy; most of them hit his face. My knuckles connect with his eye socket and he staggers backward, landing awkwardly on his back. He lets out a moan and turns over to his side.

"Hey man, you alright?"

I can't hide the large smile plastered on my face. I walk over to his cowering body. His nose is slathered with salty moisture; more protruding from his eyes.

"Just.. just go, Blaze, you've already won." He whimpers, sniffling occasionally.

"Weren't you just Mr. Macho a couple of seconds ago?" I shout at him. Seriously, what a baby.

I'm done in the training centre for today; I got my workout done, plus, an extra little competition. I leave Delid blubbering on the ground and walk out of the room, heading for the rusted locker room.

The buzz of winning still lingers in my body. Excitedly I whip off my sweaty training clothes and change into my regular clothes, an old blue tee shirt and faded jeans.

Returning to the training area in order to walk out the front door, Delid still lies on the ground.

_That's his problem._

I walk home, still thinking about the punching war.

_Those are always fun._

* * *

**Hazella Rogers, District Two Female, Age 16**

The string feels oddly heavy; the bow seems alien in my hands, like it doesn't belong to me.

_Weird._

Grasping the arrow between my fingers, the string tightens like an elastic. I release the arrow and, stepping back, watch it fly straight.

_Come on, hit the target._

The arrow heavily thuds against the foamy fabric on the target. It lands close to the centre, but not quite.

That's not good enough.

I load another arrow between my thin fingers, gently caressing the feathers at the end, as though the bird who once owned the feathers was between my two fingertips. Taking a swift breath of air, I release the second arrow. This time it marks a distinct point in the middle, spoiling the original shadows that once occupied the space.

Well, I suppose that's enough for today; I mean, I was chosen to volunteer, so that must mean something, right? Aren't I already prepared enough if they're ready to send me into an arena full of death? It's an honour, and I feel honoured, but why do I have to try so hard?

I leave the bow near the beginning of the lane. I'm the only one still in the training centre; the rest of the girls went home to their families and are probably eating a nice, warm dinner. I didn't even want to come today. I thought being chosen would mean I'd get a day off. Apparently, Terje doesn't think so.

_Since when do I care what she thinks?_

At least I'll get to see my sisters. We make up half of the population living in the group home. My sisters usually remain pretty calm and unnoticed, but I like scaring the younger boys and making Estelle, and even Aurora, laugh. Tamara doesn't really like when I do it, but she's too polite and shy; that's why it's me going into the arena, not her.

I don't bother changing out of my training clothes. After all, they're the nicest clothes I have, next to the reaping dress that Terje and Elliot reluctantly bought me. I think that's pretty much the nicest thing they've ever done for me; even though they'd beg to differ.

Kicking stones, I walk along the paved sidewalk, occasionally looking up to see if there are any people coming towards me. Seeing no pedestrians, I break into a run, pumping my exercised legs and arms. The dark doesn't scare me, but it's the fear of the unknown which I really don't like.

In no time, I'm walking up the cement staircase that leads into the old community home, two steps at a time. I forcefully push open the large doors at the entrance of the house.

"I'm home!" I shout, speaking to no one in particular. Of course, no one comes to meet me.

_What a surprise._

**Athene Blackwood, District Three Female, Age 17**

_The wheels on the short limo are running smooth, making conversation easy. We're all piled in the back, our dresses covering the dark velvet seats. Everyone's dolled up, even dad, and our driver has a nice suit as well, finer than most can afford with a year's salary. The sun's bright; its rays pour in through the sun-roof, blinding me as a look up. _

_Persephone screams. My head twists towards her, and then towards Hera, and then I manage to gaze at everyone else's horrified face before my head hits the ceiling and an imaginary black film covers my eyes. An explosion sounds, ripping the expensive car apart, sending me, as well as Persephone's teddy bear, soaring backwards, onto the hard stone road._

_I lay in the middle of the street, blood pouring out of a wound in my head, turning my hair into a dark crimson. I attempt to get back up, but I'm weighed down by the intense feeling of nausea and I fall helplessly back down to the road, whimpering. My head slides upwards, towards the flaming car._

_I scream._

"Athene, it's okay honey. Shhh, you're fine, everything's fine, calm down. Shhh, that's it," Lucia coos, caressing my hair. A thick layer of sweat coats my entire body, making me feel like a slimy ball of goo. I tear off the sheets, sobbing, and Lucia steps back.

You'd think after almost 5 months, the pain would be gone. You'd think it wouldn't hurt so damn much. You'd think the tears would stop, and the nightmares would end. But they don't. Visions of my parents haunt me, and I can't go to sleep without hearing the car explode or seeing the teddy bear lying beside me, the cotton spilling over the weathered ground.

It's my own fault, too. Maybe if I'd been looking out the window, towards the oncoming car, instead looking at the sun like a ditz, they wouldn't be dead. Of course I didn't, though, I'm useless.

More tears pour onto the old bed. "Sorry, Lucia," I gasp between the heavy sobs. The words come out crooked, but she gets the message.

"It's alright honey, just let it out." She pulls me closer, and I accept her hug, practically falling on her. She strokes my light brown hair, sorting out the knots and soothing me.

She's been so good to me. All she's shown me is kindness, and I can't repay her in any way. Her kindness has grasped me like a warm blanket, and she's been able to dull the coldness, the pain. I can't tell her how much she's helped me; partly because the fits of crying and anxiety seem like a never ending cycle, a tornado of pain of suffering, throwing me up and down, but never letting me find the ground.

"You think you're going to be alright?" Lucia asks, her kind face tainted with worry. Her eyes twinkle in the lamplight, and she almost looks as though she's going to cry herself. I sniffle.

"Yeah," I whimper, "thanks for coming in. I should be able t-to-to," the crying commences again, but I quickly diminish the tears, stopping my lower lip from quivering. "I should be able to handle it by now," I smile weakly. She responds with another smile, and envelops me in her long arms.

I watch as she, a lady who could be my twin, exits through the open door. Light from a candle spills into the room, and it almost comforts me. I bury my face in the dampened pillow, and I try to let my body sink into a deep slumber; but I can't. The words still echo in my head, like I could've done something, like it was my fault. I know it is, but why does my brain haunt me like that?

_It's all you fault. You're useless, Athene._

**Phineas Clark Fractier, District Three Male, Age 15**

"Phineas…. Phineas, it's time to wake up, dear," my mom whispers. She gently rocks my shoulder back and forth, effectively bringing me out of my dormancy. I pat her hand away. She's already outfitted in her tattered janitor's outfit, smiling at me with a tired face.

"Thanks, mom. I'll see you tonight." I dismiss her through the form of a kiss, and she exits through the crumbling doorway that enters into my small room, complete with a cracked wall, a second-hand chair, and my bed: sheets piled up with a stained pillow on one end.

The first hints of dawn cover my room, reminding me I have to hurry if I want the full pay check from the factory. Quickly rolling out of bed, I pull on my clothes; a shirt too small and a pair of cargo pants with a rip on the knee. I look up into my old mirror. Cracked lines run through the top, distorting my reflection, but making my various burn scars even more perceptible. I quickly run a hand through my black hair. My fingers are instantly covered with another thin layer of grease. I follow my mother's trail, out the door with a broken handle, and onto the vacant streets of District 3.

The withered grass in front of my house is a constant reminder- no, everything about my house is a constant reminder of my poverty. The missing shingles, the rotting wood, the broken window out front. It's saddening. Mom doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve any of this; there should be another man to help out, to make the income greater, to get her out of this shit hole. Of course, my dad's no where to be found. I don't even know who he is.

Trembling, I start the long walk to the factory. My shoes scuffle along the road. I take a casual pace, looking around at the stone walls of the various other factories placed around the District, viewing their distinction and what makes them different from the rest. Then I get to one plot where it's empty. Rubble and a large dark spot cover the ground; still tainted from the fire that destroyed the factory months ago.

"Hey kid," a hoarse voice shouts. I can feel panic settling in, weaving its way through my veins and into my head, poisoning every limb with clumsiness.

I don't need this right now. I can run away, not fast, but I can move away right now. But I can't. What if that person needs something? I need to reply. What if they're dying? The panic flows inside of me, but I have to at least try.

"Yeah? Are you alright, d-do you need help? I can help you if, you know, you need it!" I respond, awkwardly.

Three tall, well-proportioned figures escape the shadows and reveal themselves to me. Each one looks more intimidating than the one behind them.

"Crap," I curse under my breath. No matter how boring it is, I need to get to work, and three potential killers on my tail isn't going to help. I need that pay check. Mom needs that pay check.

I take off, letting my feet pat against the ground. Awkwardly and slowly, I run farther and farther into the maze of factories. Wheezing, I pass through stained alleyways and a dead stray cat, until I finally arrive in front of the computer factory.

I bend over, breathing heavily, gasping at District 3's polluted air, trying to capture it all and keep it slave in my lungs. I fix my back, attempting to look normal, and I walk into the factory's wooden door. It closes on my back, and I'm welcomed to the new work day with the familiar buzzing and constant murmur of my fellow labourers.

It's a boring job, incredibly boring, but it pays, and that's what's worth it. I take my usual spot, right between two dull, old workers. Greeting them both with a polite "hello," I sit down. Neither of them replies.

I pick up the nearest wire. I twist it into form, sending it down the conveyer belt in front of me.

Only two thousand more of these, and I'm done, free from today's labour.

_Whoopity-doo. _

* * *

Yay! I finally came to my senses and managed to get almost all the tributes submitted. Now, there's only two left! If two people would like to submit the male from District 6 and the male from District 8, that would be wonderful! Please use an original character who has never been in the Panem world before.

This chapter's almost done! Now, I just need to introduce the District 3 male, and then we'll continue on with Districts 4, 5, and 6. Thank you all for submitting, it really made me happy when I received the onslaught on tributes within two days.

I think my writing's managed to improve a bit, too. Maybe it's because it's the March break, and when I have no friends to hang out with I become bored, but I feel more creative and the word just flow onto the page. I'm trying to work on not rushing everything and putting in more detail in the current moment, so everything is more smooth and easier to read.

Sorry for the wait, my computer wouldn't work, but I only had a couple of more lines to go until I was finished, so I didn't want to re-write it. I think I'm going to have the first 3 Districts' POVs in their district, 4,5, and 6 will have the reapings, 7,8, and 9 will have the train rides, and the final 3 districts will be once they're in the Capitol. I don't think I'll be able to post much in the summer, so I might have to rush the beginning chapters a bit :p

Also, sorry for spamming you with constant updates of 1 chapter. I'm not going to release the next one until I have all 6 POVs done, so hopefully there will be no false hope when you see that my story's updated.

Please remember that your tribute has a slim chance of winning, and a slightly better chance of escaping the bloodbath. Deaths will be based on realism, the story plot, if the submitter is reading the story, which I know, thanks to reviews; and the quality of the character. Also, faithful readers will have an input using polls posted on my page.

Thanks, that's all! :)


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